Art of Seduction
by Lyrei
Summary: In the end, Tom Marvolo Riddle seduced Albus Dumbledore into an alliance. Together, they charmed the Wizarding World into a new golden age of acceptance. This is the story of Harry Potter, the heir of the Most Ancient House of Potter, and his legend. Without a mother to protect him, an absent father and a degenerate uncle, he must forge his own path and restore his House to glory.
1. Prologue 0 The Fool

In the end, Tom Marvolo Riddle seduced Albus Dumbledore, his superior in wisdom, experience and magical prowess. Together, an entire nation fell to their charms. And so, the Wizarding World entered a golden age of beauty and integration. This is the story of one Harry Potter, heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter, and his legendary affairs.

Prologue. The Fool

* * *

Lady Lily Potter was no superstitious fool. She had been a muggleborn who had only learnt of the magical world at the tender age of 11. She had entered the illustrious Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry carrying only a shining leather trunk full of books and an empty head full of dreams. Yet she had emerged at the age of 18 as the Head Girl of her year, academic accolades pouring from her ears and had defeated her many rivals to seduce her fiancé, the only heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter. To accomplish all of this, she had needed all the help she could get.

Her position and status in society seemed all but assured after the Potter Matriarch had personally approved her only son's choice of bride. That was only on the surface, however. Before she produced an heir, any overzealous harpy, like those awful Black sisters, could easily topple her from her post and leave her destitute and ruined on the streets.

Lady Potter was no fool, so she knew what she had to do to protect herself and her unborn child. It was a technique she used rarely these days, now that her intuition and experience had helped her blossom into a matriarch in her own right, predicting dangers before they could befall her and her family. Some things, however, were less predictable. Espionage, treacherous plots, the birth of her first child. That was when the cards would come into play.

The cards were housed in an unassuming box of pale beechwood, deeply inscribed with runes she had painstakingly carved herself to attain her mastery in Ancient Runes. She untied the coarse black cloth which bound the box and hid it from prying eyes, effortlessly lifting its lid and retrieving the cards that lay within.

Once, the cards had been nothing more than paper, bought by her sister on a whim from a London occult bookshop that she had dragged their entire family to 'learn more about magic'. For her sister, the cards had been just pretty pictures to look at during a rainy afternoon, before being tossed aside and forgotten about entirely. Under Lily's fingertips, however, the cards had come alive. Soaked in her magic almost every day, transforming her innocent daydreams into fierce ambition, after a decade they had become a magic artifact in their own right.

Lily Evans had been the first witch to pass a NEWT in Divination for 30 years. The only person qualified to examine her, Cassandra Trelawney, had pronounced that her ability was good, if unrefined. In secret, the celebrated seer had helped to tease her raw potential into true power. Now, Lady Potter was very, very good at what she did.

The cards had lain undisturbed for years now. The back of the tarot cards were all the same- a complex gold decorative pattern looping through a background of Gryffindor-red, with a single eye at its center. Under her gaze, the entire deck floated up from her palm and meticulously shuffled themselves. Years of experience had taught them purpose, and through their shared bond, they knew their mistress' purpose too.

Three cards emerged, the simplest spread that she had ever used.

The Empress. Lady Potter looked at the card of the Mother who lay reclined in luxurious clothes, a diadem upon her head. It was her, now. She had always been a Queen before, a Queen of Swords. Now, it seemed that her path was clear. Complex emotions began to well up in her heart, but she suppressed them ruthlessly. She would be a mother in the future, but she would have to live to see that day first.

Next, the Fool. It was expected. She was embarking on the journey of motherhood, so the card for new beginnings would be hard-pressed to not appear.

The reading seemed to be in her favour, but there was still one card left unturned. Lady Potter had never once feared what her cards revealed to her, had never flinched in the pursuit of the truth. Yet as the final card turned to deliver its message, she felt an icy hand steal over her heart.

For the card depicted an image that would chill anyone who looked upon it. A skeleton knight in black steel armour, bearing a black standard upon a mounted horse of dazzling white. Women, children, kings and commoners all lay dying before it, united before the only thing all man must face.

It was Death, and in her heart of hearts, Lady Potter knew that it meant the end.


	2. Chapter 1 The Magus

1\. The Magician

* * *

Harry Potter had learnt, from a very early age, that no one would take care of him if he did not take care of himself. It was a lonely philosophy to be sure, but it suited a lonely boy whose father was rarely home. The servants took care of his basic needs, his meals and his attire, but not with any tender affection. Sitting alone in the splendid but cold manor, Harry sometimes felt as if he was being suffocated by silence.

School was different, however. Harry could get lost easily in the lessons, which ranged from magical plants to classical history, with friends that he had known since early childhood. The school was even expecting a guest professor from Hogwarts this week, to give a preparatory talk before the upper year graduated to walk through those hallowed halls. The entire school was bubbling over with excited energy, especially the final year students.

Harry was one of them. He had locked down tight on his excitement however, out of consideration to the newly arrived muggleborn students who looked very lost and confused.

All except one.

"May I borrow Finch-Fletchley for a moment?" he asked, extricating the lone muggleborn boy from the group of pureblood peers that he had found himself surrounded by.

"Harry dear! We were just giving the new student some good advice," Pansy Parkinson simpered, her pug-like scowl turning into fawning adoration upon seeing who had interrupted her, "he really has joined so incredibly late, I wonder if he'll survive the first week of Hogwarts!"

Harry forced a smile in response, "Thank you, Pansy. I'll take over it from here. I think Draco was looking for you over by the greenhouse, and we both know how impatient he is."

Pansy blushed immediately at the news, all thoughts of further protest flying from her head as she hurriedly took her leave. It was a kind lie, and he had no doubt Draco would be wrathful in his revenge later at having to entertain the girl's obsessive tendencies. However, Harry turned his attention to the boy who was walking unaffectedly towards him.

Justin Finch-Fletchley. He was a conundrum. Most latecomer muggleborn students kept to themselves or stuck to their assigned student representatives, but Finch-Fletchley had turned the tables of such expected behaviour completely. In the three days he had been here, he had managed to charm half the school and thoroughly offend the other half with his brazenness. It was a misfortune that most of those who disliked him would be his year-mates in Hogwarts come September.

"We both know he can't stand her," Justin remarked, completely unruffled by his previous entanglement, "I don't know why you bothered."

Harry could understand why his classmates disliked him. Justin's chest was puffed up proudly, he had a constant air of superiority with no noble relatives or knowledge of wizarding culture to explain his arrogance. He behaved with irreproachable decorum, but he possessed the unassailable self-confidence of a child who had been spoiled with affection since he was very young.

Despite his muggleborn status, he had no intention of toadying up to the purebloods to get ahead in his studies. Harry had been fascinated by his behaviour and had found it refreshing. He had not been the only one. In a suffocating environment where the future Lords and Ladies of the Wizarding World were being schooled and bred for power, in had blown this complete Natural. He affected no pretences, was unintimidated by nobility and insisted on making his presence through sheer willpower.

Despite everything, Harry found himself wanting to look out for him.

"Honesty without tact is cruelty," Harry reminded his newest classmate gently, "Draco knows that the Parkinson family is part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and their families have had direct business dealings in the recent past which could have an impact on their future relationship. You didn't know this, but now that you do, don't you feel that you spoke thoughtlessly just now?"

Justin absorbed everything he just said greedily, a thoughtful and intelligent expression in his eyes. Harry had noted his voracious appetite for knowledge, which was reassuring. Not every child of Hogwarts survived to become a full-fledged member of wizarding society. Perhaps Justin would learn quickly enough to make it.

"You really have turned gossip into an art form," Justin remarked, not unkindly, "you must be a big help to your family."

Harry suppressed the instinctual flinch at the mention of his family. His father had always been distant, but lately, it had been days at a time before he returned to the manor. When he did return, his rumpled clothes always had a strong scent of some musky perfume that Harry had never smelt before. He was not stupid, he knew what this meant. They never spoke, and when they did, his father would never meet his eyes. Late at night when he was small, Harry would wander the halls of his ancestral manor, wondering if he was a boy or a ghost.

Of course, Justin knew none of that, and it was not his fault. Harry knew that, but it still felt as though he had been slapped.

"And surely you must be as much of a disappointment to your family as much as Potter is a credit to his," came a familiar drawl from behind him. Harry could have hugged his blond head in sheer relief for distracting him from the suffocating situation.

"Malfoy."

"Finch-Fletchley," Draco countered, "why your family bothered to string together two completely insignificant houses into one name is simply beyond me."

"And why your family named you after a dragon when you're nothing but a slimy lizard, is also beyond me," Justin retorted coolly, but Harry could tell from his flushed cheeks that he was angry. Two high spots of pink appeared on Draco's cheeks as he opened his mouth to spit more poisonous words out. Harry knew if he didn't intervene now, it would end up as more than just a verbal brawl.

"Alright," he said softly, "I think that's enough. Draco, that was uncalled for. Justin, you didn't have to rise to it." The both of them looked about ready to protest but kept quiet. Harry was a student representative and he was already doing them both a favour by not reporting the incident.

Abraxus Preparatory Academy was very strict on maintaining good relationships between muggleborn and pureblood students to properly integrate new blood into wizarding society. Most muggleborns in the United Kingdom were located and recommended to enter the school at age 3 to promote integration with pureblood children. Some parents chose to act against advice, however, only allowing their children to attend the mandatory 1-week preparatory lessons for Hogwarts. This gave rise to severe culture clash like what Justin was experiencing.

Besides, they both knew that infighting would not reflect well on them. Lord Malfoy would absolutely give Draco a bollocking if the news got out that his son was bullying a defenceless new muggleborn student. Justin would earn himself no admiration from fighting with the most influential student in the school.

"Fine," Justin spat, shooting a venomous look at Draco, "sorry, Harry." The boy flounced off, probably to lick his wounds with an admiring girl from their year.

Harry felt himself soften a little at the muttered apology. He turned to Draco, "I suppose it's too much to expect an apology from you to him?"

"A Malfoy never apologises," Draco said haughtily, "Finch-Fletchley needs to learn his place in the pecking order. Everyone is complaining about him. You should do something about it before an upper year takes offence in Hogwarts. Also, you owe me for setting Pansy on my trail! It took me ages to shake her off."

Draco didn't mince his words as he complained and nagged like a housewife, but Harry knew that underneath all the bluster, he secretly cared a little for their outspoken muggleborn classmate.

"I'll speak to him properly about it after the professor gives his lecture tomorrow. Do you know who it is this year?" Harry asked. He watched as Draco's chest swelled with pride at the question, secretly smiling to himself.

"It's Professor Severus Snape, the most renowned potions master in Europe and my godfather!" Draco declared proudly, "I can't believe he's coming to our little prep school to give the welcome talk. I think it must be due to Father telling him I'm here."

Draco would splutter indignantly at the thought, but Harry secretly thought that he and Justin were very much alike. Perhaps that was the reason why they clashed so often. Both were singularly the centres of their own worlds, convinced that everyone in their lives revolved around them. Their magnetic personalities ensured that this was true.

Harry tuned the rest of Draco's godfather idolation out and turned his thoughts to other matters. His father had requested that he come to his study after dinner, which meant that they would have dinner together. He didn't know if he was looking forward to it or dreading it. Anticipation coiled in his stomach like a venomous snake.

"You're thinking about tonight, aren't you?"

Harry was startled out of his thoughts completely by the unexpected question. Draco looked at him with a look of such understanding and curiosity in his eyes that was so quintessentially Draco, that Harry couldn't help but laugh and slip his hand into his friend's hand, squeezing it fiercely. Draco crushed his hand back just as painfully.

"When Father wants to speak to me sometimes, I'm also petrified. Don't worry, Harry, I understand," he said, slinging a reassuring arm around Harry's shoulders.

Harry bit his tongue before he could say something he would regret because Draco would never understand. He had never met a child who was more loved than his friend, with his mother constantly fussing over him and his father's looks of restrained pride at his heir and constant indulgences. Sometimes when his father looked at him, Harry wondered if he felt anything at all.

Of course, he could never say anything like this to Draco, who was always so painfully bright and happy. He would never understand, and Harry hoped that he never would.

"I'll be fine," Harry said with a smile, "I'm sure everything will be fine. I'm looking forward to it."

Draco looked at him seriously. "I don't know who you're trying to convince, but I'm sure that not even you believed in what you just said. When I reach my majority, I'm adopting you into my family and that is that."

Harry shoved Draco playfully, a smile unwittingly appearing on his face at the outlandish statement that only he could pull off. "House Malfoy will never absorb House Potter," he smirked, "by the time I reach my majority, it'll be you begging to join me."

"We'll see about that! You're awfully cocky as an heir to a family who isn't even part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight!" Draco snarked, and their conversation devolved into childish mocking and cruel laughter.

It was only after the peal of the final bell had rung to signify the end of school that Harry's nervousness returned, poised to bite his heart like a viper.


	3. Chapter 2 The High Priestess

A/N: Thank you for reading and following. I would appreciate if you could leave a review to let me know how you are finding my story so far. If you have any fears and concerns, please share them with me so I can caution myself in the future. For now, I would like to say two thoughts I have on the story while writing it: I hope that none of my characters will be pigeonholed into a demon or an impossibly good archetype. They reflect people as they are in real life- neither wholly good nor evil, but just struggling and trying our best.

Another thing is about the chapter titles. They will follow the major arcana for a while, but it doesn't mean that Harry will be meeting each and every one of them. For a 11-year-old boy to comprehend all of the major arcana, it would be a very tall order indeed. If anything, the meanings of the arcana will be flavouring each chapter at most. It's a little challenge from myself to myself.

Please enjoy the chapter.

* * *

Chapter 2: The High Priestess

* * *

Dinner was a strained affair. If Uncle Sirius had not been there to crack jokes to ease the tenseness, Harry thought he would have keeled over from stress before dessert was served. As it was, he was already tensed and on the edge of his seat, his fingers gripping too tightly on his fork.

"Is it like this all the time, Harry? It feels like a mausoleum in here, brr! You have to lighten the place up, Prongs," Sirius complained, slapping James on the back. Harry stiffened at the mention of a mausoleum, but his father simply grimaced.

"If you must come for dinner, uninvited, then at least try to be civil," Lord Potter said bitingly. He put down his fork and motioned to the servant waiting by the door. "Dessert won't be necessary for me. Harry may take his later, after our discussion."

Harry felt his stomach twist into a knot. He was in no mood to eat any more of the delicious rack of lamb which had been neatly carved for him. The mashed potatoes slumped sadly on the side of his plate, untouched. Dessert was the last thing on his mind in this tense atmosphere.

"What? You can't cancel dessert, Prongs. It's like cancelling Christmas!" Sirius exclaimed indignantly, "Back me up here, cub. Is he like this all the time here? I can see why he's so reluctant to come back..."

"Sirius," his father hissed, "You can stay here and have your dessert. I'll keep the meeting short, Harry, since your godfather and I have an event to attend later."

Harry nodded, still unable to speak, and folded up his napkin from his lap to leave the dining table. He could still hear Sirius grumbling to himself as he followed behind his father, "If he actually succeeds in seducing her, I doubt he'd ever come back..."

His footsteps faltered, and he felt his blood pounding in his ears. His father turned and shot him a sharp look. Mechanically, he plodded up the staircase, his eyes boring into his father's back. Who was Sirius talking about?

The lamps flickered to life as soon as his father walked into his study, welcoming back its master. It was still the dark and oppressive room that Harry remembered from early in his childhood. He had not been back in this room for a long time, but he still felt as small and helpless as he had been back then.

He was startled from his reverie as his father collapsed roughly into his enormous leather office chair. His father seemed to pause as he looked away beneath his desk, but his moment of hesitation was brief as he placed a square box wrapped in a coarse black cloth on his desk. He did not address it immediately, instead choosing to look directly at Harry.

"You've grown, son. You look just like I did at your age," his father said softly, "but your eyes, they've never changed. You have your mother's eyes."

Harry felt a lump in his throat grow, but he steeled himself and swallowed his fears. "I know, dad."

His father smiled faintly, and for the first time, Harry saw the weariness in his eyes. His father looked worn-out and a lot older than he had once been. An inexplicable feeling began to well up within him.

"I was never a good husband, and god knows, I've been an awful father too. After your mother died, I..."

"It's alright, dad. I'm fine," Harry said.

"You are? Good, good," his father replied distractedly, visibly lost in his own thoughts, "You've always been independent, always looked after yourself, so I thought..."

"I'm fine," Harry repeated.

His father looked at him searchingly, then shook his head. "As long as you're taking care of yourself. Your mother, she never needed anyone as well. When she was carrying you, she was convinced that she saw her own death. She made endless preparations, but a lot of them didn't survive-" here, his voice caught, "They didn't survive what happened. This box, however, was one of the few that did."

"It's yours now. She wanted you to have it and bring it to Hogwarts with you," his father continued steadily, "so that a part of her would always be with you, while you were away from home."

Harry did not hear what his father said next. He barely remembered the touch of his father patting him on the back, telling him to stay in the office as long as he wanted to. Only the soft click of the door closing shut behind his father woke him from his stunned state.

His mother knew he would be her death, but she carried him and loved him anyway. Anguish threatened to overwhelm him, the raw pain of old wounds threatening to bleed anew. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His father's whisky scent lingering in the air, the dusty old books that had not been touched in a decade, he breathed it all in.

 _I am steel. I will not break, I can only bend. Indomitable will, grant me the strength to pursue the truth I seek._ The meditative chant taught by the preparatory school to contain their magic breathed pure steel into his veins. The meditation technique that worked for outbursts of uncontrolled magic also worked very well for emotional outbursts. Pressing down on his feelings of hysteria and anguish, Harry shaped it into a needle of purpose and drove it into his heart. When he opened his eyes again, he was focused and calm. First, he would attend to the box.

It looked like a very unassuming box. There was nothing special about the black cloth it was wrapped up in. However, his father had said that it was a gift from his mother to him. A piece of her that he could carry with him always. That made the box rarer than the rarest treasure on the earth.

With steady fingers, the coarse black muslin cloth was undone and fell to the table, revealing the pale beechwood box ensconced within. There were complex blood-red runes that spiralled across every inch of the box, carved so deeply that the entire box looked like a rune. There seemed to be no opening at all, but at Harry's touch, the runes glowed a brighter red than before. There was a soft click and the lid of the box sprang open.

Harry peered curiously into the box, his heart in his throat. There were three items within. A slim deck of cards, a wand and a letter. His sharp eyes caught the first line written on the letter. He immediately slammed the box shut.

 _My darling boy,_

"There is a limit," Harry told himself blankly, "There is a limit to how much I am expected to handle in one day. I have reached it."

His breathing was quick and shallow as he wrapped the box back up with the black coarse cloth. He ran back to his room as quickly as his legs could carry him with the box in his arms.

Harry lay solemnly curled up into a ball on his bed, his arms circled protectively around the box. He watched the minutes tick past on his clock, the slow and torturous hours slipping by. When the hour hand finally ticked to midnight, he smiled brightly.

"Happy birthday, Harry," he whispered to himself.

* * *

In the main hall, they were all seated, shuffling nervously. They were on chairs rather than the customary benches to signify their impeding step into a higher realm. They would leave their lives as academy students behind and become full-fledged acolytes of magic at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. There they would stay, emerging either as wizards and witches in the prime of their majority, or remain in the watery tombs of the lake forever.

At least, that was what the Professor had said. Professor Severus Snape, the premier potions master of wizarding Europe. He had swept in silently, a whirl of luxurious black robes and malevolent sneers. He did conduct a talk so much as attack the students with terrifying statistics of injury and death rates, the disclaimers they would have to sign and the slim chance of ever flourishing as adult wizards, if they even survived their first year in Hogwarts.

Experiments gone wrong, unfixable curses, professors who used students as test subjects. There was much to trap an unaware first-year student, and many lay forever within the lake's watery grave.

"I don't know anyone in father's year who died," Draco whispered, nudging Harry in the ribs.

"No one important, you mean," Harry countered, lost in his own thoughts. Under Lord Riddle's regime, many things had changed. History had been very clearly cut in two- the time before Lord Riddle and the time after. The difference was as stark as night and day. He had taken care to whisper at a lower voice to Draco, but he was unfortunate enough to attract the Professor's attention.

A pair of beady black eyes bored deep into him, dark and full of repressed rage. The professor's sallow face faded into the background, but the pair of devil-like pitch-black eyes only seemed to grow bigger and bigger, blotting out his entire field of vision. Harry bit back a gasp as he felt memories that had been buried deeply, so deeply, within his psyche dragged to the surface. The nights spent alone, always alone since the darkest, dimmest reaches of his memory. His father's eyes, heavy with disappointment, that passed through him as if he were a ghost. Then finally, there lay the box, the coarse black cloth unwound and laying limply on his father's desk.

 _"No,"_ Harry said instinctively. No one was allowed to see that. Some feral part of him recognised the box as something that once belonged to his mother, and through their shared blood, it was now his as well. As he claimed the box through his memories, so too did the box claim him in return. The deeply carved runes glowed an ominous red, springing to the defence of its new master.

A blizzard of cards surged violently out from the box, thrusting the lid wide open and charging recklessly at the enormous pair of eyes, blacker than black, that kept watching and watching and watching. Even as black blood began to pour from the paper-thin cuts that the torrent of cards inflicted, the eyes seemed to stare straight at Harry, all the way down to his naked soul. He shivered as more memories rose to the surface, becoming almost tangible in the dark study.

Harry tore his own eyes away from those demonic black orbs as he caught the box trembling once more. A fair arm stretched its way grotesquely through the open box, its long red nails scrabbling uselessly at the floor. Another arm clawed its way out from the box, then a deformed face full of red curls, followed rather impossibly by the rest of the creature's body. Long, flowing white robes thankfully hid the rest of it from view.

"Foul fiend," it hissed, its voice like nails on a chalkboard, "there is no space here for the likes of you!"

Harry didn't think the grotesque creature was in any position to call the eyes foul. It stood in front of Harry, blocking him from the gaze of the eyes. From the back, all he could see were her white robes, where a glowing crescent-shaped burning with incandescent white light hung. It looked infinitely sharp and burned brightly, but the creature did not hesitate to reach back and grasp it with its claws, drawing it with an experienced air.

A bloodthirsty and murderous aura hung heavily in the air. Harry instinctively sensed that this creature was neither good nor evil, but it was incredibly powerful.

Swift as lightning, the creature slashed its weapon down with almighty force directly across the black eyes. For one second, time seemed to stand still. The next second, inky black ichor exploded from the eyes, spraying like a fountain all over the dark study. The eyes shattered completely, falling delicately to the ground like powdered glass.

"This is a dream," Harry heard himself saying. His voice sounded a long way away, "This can't be real."

The figure in white turned to face him fully, its crescent moon weapon fully sheathed once again. Where there had once been a distorted, grotesque face, now there was only the inhumanly beautiful visage of an aristocratic woman. Her eyes glittered with intelligence and her lips curved into a knowing smile.

"And can't dreams be real, my dearest boy?" she asked.

"Who are you?" Harry trembled. _My dearest boy._ The first line of that letter that he could not read, not yet.

The woman's knowing smile only deepened. "I am not the one that you seek," she said gently, "but once, we all trembled under her will. First as a Queen, then as the Empress. She meant for us to serve at your side, so I wonder, what manner of monster did she hope for you to become?"

Harry did not flinch at the word monster, as he had many times before. Here in this dream world of his father's dark study, he was for the first time unafraid.

"What were those eyes?" he asked, the image of those deflated eyeballs drowning in their own black blood still fresh in his mind.

"A spy," the woman replied, her delicate and beautiful features twisting into a malevolent sneer. For a second, her face seemed to flicker back and forth between the grotesque figure that Harry had first seen crawling out of the box and her fairer form. "He dug a little too deep and fell here into your subconscious, which is my domain. I couldn't follow his eyes back to the rest of his mind, so I destroyed them. He will never see again," she said with an air of self-satisfaction.

Harry did not even know how to begin understanding that sentence. It seemed as if his unlikely protector was as determined as possible to give him convoluted answers to led to more questions. He gingerly sat down on the carpeted floor of the study in a meditative pose, massaging his temples.

"Are you confused, my dear? Do you feel as if you have lost your way?" The woman's eyes glittered with avarice.

"Just a little, yes," Harry said, rather tersely, "How do I get out of here?"

"I do not have the answers, but I know that as of this moment- you cannot leave," the woman replied, her smile deepening once again, "Your mind was most grievously injured in the vicious attack you suffered from the spy. Look up above you."

Harry turned his head up. His mouth pressed into a thin, hard line. An enormous jagged tunnel stretched up above him into endless darkness. Chunks of debris slowly fell down from its edges from time to time.

"It doesn't look good," Harry said in a small voice.

"You should be thankful that you did not immediately die," she said lightly, "As it is, the damage is irrevocable. Every second we speak here, your psyche is splintering into infinite fragments. When you wake up, if you ever do, you may find yourself irredeemably mad."

The woman said this delicately, her expression never changing even as she imparted this terrible news. Harry looked at her beautiful face, serene and majestic. She was not afraid of death, but he was. He had to grow up quickly, make it through Hogwarts and take over the duties that burdened his father so terribly. He had to go back and make sure Draco and the new boy Finch-Fletchley didn't get themselves killed in the first week of Hogwarts. There was a letter that he had left unread.

When he got back to the real world, Harry promised himself that he would read it.

If he didn't do something now, he would die. This was the only thing that he could be certain of right now, in this mutable world that made no sense to him. Harry turned to the woman and looked directly at her, past her immensely attractive mask to the monstrous face that lay beneath. One day, he thought to himself, he would not find himself so weak as he was now, having to depend on the kindness of a stranger to save his life.

"You said that you don't have the answers," he said steadily, ploughing on when she nodded courteously at him, "then could you tell me who does? How do I get back safely?"

The woman smiled beatifically, her mutilated mouth stretching from ear to ear. He could see her bleached bone-white skull shifting beneath her translucent skin. "Follow."

She glowed brightly, the light brightest at the very core of her body and radiating outwards. Her figure seemed to compress, shrinking smaller and smaller until it was reduced to a single card. It was a deep red, with gold embossing covering almost all of the foreground, save for a small open eye at its centre. Harry focused all his attention on the card until slowly, the card revolved. The card held the image of the beautiful woman seated in her white robes, a tall pillar on either side of her and her crescent moon weapon at her feet, free of the black blood it had been stained in. Underneath her image were the words, written thus: 'THE HIGH PRIESTESS'. The woman, though Harry supposed he should call her the priestess now, was smiling in the card. Slowly, her arm raised upwards, pointing at something. A little confused, Harry looked up.

He found himself in a dense forest of trees, bleached bone-white as if they had been blasted by lightning.


	4. Chapter 3 The Empress

A/N: The poem written below is not original. I adapted it a little, but I found it in its entirety online.

* * *

Chapter 3: The Empress

* * *

Though the skeleton trees of the forest were so white that they glowed, the sky was shadowed in a crimson dusk. Stars studded the hazy sky, but a full moon and a dull midnight sun were present too, lending a little light to illuminate the dark forest.

Harry found that his path forwards in the forest was shrouded in thick mist. So it seemed that he would have to blindly feel his way out.

"I can't make sense of where I am at all," Harry muttered to himself, "Or where I am supposed to go."

"Man is born unknowing, and returns to dust, unknowing," the priestess materialised before him, her spotless white robes billowing behind her lending her a divine aura, "Few have ever pierced the veil. Perhaps if you find a path leading out of here, you will have the dubious honour of joining those hapless few."

"You're back," Harry observed dully.

"This place too is my domain," the priestess replied with a smile, "If I considered any place as home, perhaps it would be here in the Forest of Arcana."

Forest of Arcana. The name sounded strange and foreign on the tip of Harry's tongue. He wondered what sort of creature the High Priestess was, to consider this wasteland, devoid of any signs of life, as her home. On second thought, Harry wondered about his own home. Hadn't Sirius called it a mausoleum after all? Perhaps it was a little too much for him to judge her harshly.

"It's a... Interesting home. Are you the only one who lives here?" Harry asked, in an effort to be polite. The forest was soaked in an atmosphere of desolation. Dimly in the back of his mind, he wondered if that was why he felt strangely at home here.

"Others call this place home as well. Shall I sing a song for you, while you walk? If you tarry here any longer, it'll get more and more difficult to take the first step."

The priestess began to walk ahead by herself, and as she walked she began to sing to herself softly.

"The Magus Wills with bolts of fire,  
The Priestess Shapes her inner desire.

The Empress Births beneath the Sun,  
The Emperor Rules the four as one.

The Pope Blesses the narrow way,  
The Lovers Tempt by night and day.

The Chariot Conquers with iron mind,  
The Balance Weighs and pays in kind.

The Hermit Lights the right-hand path,  
The Wheel Turns, the gods laugh.

The Strength of Faith shuts savage jaws,  
The Martyr Bows to heaven's laws.

The Reaper Releases souls from earth,  
The Alchemist Blends and finds true worth.

The Devil Tests with earthly blow,  
The Tower Falls if built for show.

The Star gives Hope of things to come,  
The Moon Warns of dreams undone.

The Sun Warms the world with joy,  
Ths Trumpet Wakes the sleeping boy.

The World Combines the All in One,  
The Fool's Road ends where it's begun."

* * *

Harry was lost. He stretched out his hand and watched as his fingers were swallowed up completely by the thick mist which enveloped everything around him. It almost felt as if he was walking through a cloud. His clothes were wet and clinging to his skin and he had long given up on flicking away the droplets which ran down his hair in rivulets. He blinked as a drop of water ran across his eye and down his face, almost as if he was crying. The priestess' song had long faded from his ears, but he couldn't make any sense out of it anyway. He had long lost her in the mist.

Harry did not know how long he had walked. There were no markers for him to remember his way, only more skeletons of dead trees. The ground beneath him was cracked, jagged rock. He had slipped on it several times as the mist condensed on the stone. His shoes were not suitable for this terrain and he had long kicked them off in frustration. His palms had been slashed open the last time he fell down and he let them bleed freely. The mist water mixed with his blood, washing him clean.

His whole body hurt, but he had promised himself. As long as he was still alive, he would keep on walking and find a place out of here. There were too many things he had to do. If this was the end, Harry thought, then he would use his last breath to keep on searching for a way out. He did not feel thirsty or hungry, just a dull ache where his feet should be and the sharp pain in his palms.

Deeper into the forest he went, his mind empty of all thoughts except for putting one foot in front of the other.

He couldn't even summon enough energy to be surprised when the mist began to lift, revealing immensely tall pillars ahead in his path. He lifted his head up to see that the pillars actually ended a full foot away from the ground. _Of course_ , Harry thought to himself, _Nothing makes sense here at all._

Up ahead, there was a figure in a distance. Harry's eyes narrowed, but he did not outwardly react. He had not seen another living creature since the priestess, which suggested that this person could be someone like her. As he drew closer, he realised that it was a man hung upside down from a living tree with leafy boughs. Harry looked at the man's serene expression with deep suspicion. The man's blue eyes were clear as he looked up at the sky. This was not a man who needed help, Harry decided.

"You are weary," the Hanged Man said, "Have you thought of standing still?"

"No, I have to find the exit," Harry replied, walking past the man without looking back. If he stopped, he didn't think he would have the strength to carry on walking again.

"You could wait for the exit to come to you," the Hanged Man suggested, "Or maybe try seeing things from a different perspective. Have you considered seeing things from another angle?"

Harry paused, just for a moment. "I'm not so sure I would do as well as you are, hanging upside down like that. Don't you ever get dizzy?"

The Hanged Man considered this for a while. "Maybe in the beginning, but consider this- When a man must win at all costs, would it be wiser to sacrifice himself instead? When a man most wants to act, would it be wiser to wait a while instead? Before a man has sacrificed himself for a cause, does he truly know his worth? It's better to take one step back and reflect than rush two steps forward into mortal danger, my friend."

The man spoke in a whimsical sing-song tone. Everything about him was so utterly ridiculous Harry almost forgot about his exhaustion as he smiled. "Perhaps it's better to look up at the ground upside-down than it is to look down at the ground from the right way up," he offered.

The Hanged Man's eyes brightened. "Then, shall I give you a hand?"

Before Harry could even respond, the world violently blurred the mist and pillars together. He resisted the urge to be sick and pressed his eyes shut firmly as he felt his body forcibly revolve. _This is what I get_ , Harry found the time to reflect, _for talking to strangers_.

It was a long time before the world righted itself. When Harry finally found the courage to open his eyes again, he was no longer in the Forest, and there was not a single pillar in sight. The Hanged Man had disappeared completely as well.

Harry found himself standing in a field, with golden wheat as far as the eye could see. He was not alone, however. A woman lay reclining against a luxurious array of silk pillows, red velvet streaming across the soft structure. The woman herself was incomparably radiant, with a crown of stars upon her brow. She was clothed in white silk robes like the priestess wore, but her hair was ever long, as red as fire itself.

"You are hurt," she said, a note of alarm in her beautiful voice, "If we do not do something soon, it will be the end."

She looked at Harry with eyes of such warmth and tenderness that his breathing hitched. To be hurt and weak in front of her was alright, she seemed to say. Wanting to be loved and cared for was natural- that was the aura of a mother. Harry had never known what it felt like to have a mother, but he supposed that this was what it would feel like. Like basking in the light of a hundred suns, he felt like with her support, he could do anything. Harry had to remind himself that this wasn't real, that this was some mad world dreamt up by a madman, where nothing made sense.

"I don't know what to do," Harry admitted, "I can't find the exit."

"Whatever could you possibly mean?" the Empress said gently, "The exit has been in front of you all this time."

Harry frowned, his mouth a firm slash across his face. Sometimes, he saw the image of it out of the corner of his eye. Reflected in the mist, there had been the shimmering shape of a door. Every time he had reached out, it had disappeared from sight. Now, it was solidly in front of him, made of the same wood as his mother's box. This time if he reached out, Harry knew that it would open, and he could step through to the other side.

"There is no reason to be afraid now," the Empress rose from her seat, scattering her silk cushions to the ground. She walked over to Harry and held his hand in hers. Despite her warm skin, her hand felt skeletal in his loose grip, and now Harry was afraid to look at her face. "You will not go alone."

"I won't?" Harry asked, his eyes widening slightly as he looked up at the Empress, "Will you come with me?"

Her face was half-skeleton and half-woman. Though she smiled elegantly, the skeletal half of her face did not so much as twitch. She did not speak, but her robes billowed outwards in an unexpected wind. When the wind had settled down again, there was the figure of a small boy hidden behind her voluminous white robes. He had bright emerald-green eyes that almost glowed like a cat's and untameable black hair. There was a small scar on his forehead, the same one that Harry had on his. The little boy did not say a word, but he tripped up to Harry through the field of wheat and held his hand confidently. This was clearly the person that the Empress meant to accompany him.

The little boy tugged at his hand, pointing towards the door. "We have to go, Harry," he said plaintively, in a high and childish voice, "Let's go."

Harry bit his lip and turned his head back towards the Empress. "I have one last question," he said, "Are you my mother?"

The Empress smiled sedately from her luxurious seat and tilted her head to one side, pondering the question. "I am the Mother of All Creation," she smiled, "but that is not the answer you seek. The truth you need is what we both already know. Lily Potter died 7 years ago, on the night of All Hallows Eve. You were the reason for her death, and you will bear the scars of her death forever. The little boy whose hand you hold is one such scar, but today he will serve as your saviour."

That was all the truth that Harry needed to hear. Still holding the little boy's hand, he flung the door open and stepped through.

Skyscrapers, grey high-rise buildings and cut telephone wires. All were collapsing, utterly broken. Harry wondered what it meant that even the structures in his mind were a completely foreign landscape to him. For he had accepted during his walk that it was his own mind that he was lost in, for there was no place on earth that such fantastic and bizarre scenes could occur. Perhaps, he was already going mad. It was a scene of such utter desolation and destruction that it would be a wonder if there was anything left to fix.

"You've made a right mess of things," the little boy chided him gently, "You coward."


End file.
